A perky little West Highland White Terrier—I know, there are no big ones—answering to the name of “Puppy,” or “Dumples” depending on who does the calling, lies under my desk as I write, wishing I’d feed her a piece of crunchy cooked-just-right bacon. But I refuse, it’s my breakfast. Dogs get dog food. And I don’t suffer begging. The bacon is the hormone-free variety. No nitrates (you have to cook the whole package within days of opening it). No sugar or corn syrup. Even claims to be organic and such. You know you want a piece.
So does Puppy.
I kinda inherited her, more or less. Back when Puppy was a puppy, she was a birthday present to a little girl who sincerely wanted a dog and seriously wanted this one. A few years sped down the road, and the girl is a woman. She has her own laptop, car and photography business. She sports an attitude that’s 37 times larger than her frame. She’s even acquired a gun-totin’, liberty-minded, Mustang-restoring, PHP-programming, technozoid husband along the way. (Just make sure you get his ethnicity correct.) But he doesn’t do animals. It’s a dander thang. You see the dilemma. Dog, hubby. Hubby, dog. Hmmm... what to choose? A credit to her generation, my daughter refused to upgrade her spouse to the newer model that doesn’t have allergies.
Puppy is sleeping, somewhere close to the fourth paragraph, slowly perishing from lack of bacon. I like the dog. Always have. I really don’t know why. Some things you don’t have to know, they just are. She slept by my bed last night during the neighborhood’s pre-Independence Day fireworks. Mostly firecrackers. Neither squawking or sniveling, nor bolting for the nearest mousehole to hide in, she stayed put during the gunshots. Works for me, having known an 80 pound Golden that insisted on crawling into your back pocket during such times.
As I stated, her white is grey and her dog claws are bear claws. The fur near her eyes is stained. She just needs a good bath, some grooming and a firm gentle hand, and she’ll be a cute little Westie.